


This Is The Thing

by megrh08



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megrh08/pseuds/megrh08
Summary: The thing is, no one ever taught Draco about how to act during sex.





	This Is The Thing

The thing is, no one ever taught Draco about how to act during sex.

He was mostly taught things by his parents, who were ruthless in his education but never thought to inform him how to comport himself when in bed with someone. Instead he learned how to behave at public functions, how to speak with clarity and a sharp edge of distain, which utensils to use at seven-course meals, and how to discern the subtle web of power in the connections of those about him. He learned how to hold his body: chin up, back tall, shoulders straight and strong. He was schooled in how to command attention when he entered a room, how to dismiss someone with the lazy flick of his elegant wrist, and how to present his slim figure to its best advantage with studied grace.

He learned things that his parents didn’t teach him outright, either, because Draco had always been observant, eager to learn. His mother taught him how to encase himself in a cold, hard shell of sharp smiles and insincere words. Narcissa taught him how to flatter and flirt with lowered lashes and small smiles, how to dress himself with taste and great expense, how to twist barbs of sweet malice into those who disappointed him. She taught Draco how to hide his true feelings behind a poised mask, which only ever slipped in front of Harry Potter.

Draco’s father taught him how to wield power and influence like a silver dagger, and how to bully his juniors into almost any act he could want them to commit. Lucius taught his son the subtle art of politics, the importance of minions like Crabbe and Goyle, and the social hierarchy which held the old pureblood families like the Malfoys at the top, and imprisoned Muggleborns and blood traitors at the bottom. Lucius’s lessons never settled well with Draco, though, and when he sought to use them he always felt a sickly curl of disgust in the pit of his stomach. However, Draco found himself resorting to these tactics, learned at Lucius’s knee, when Harry Potter spurned his friendship and failed to appear nearly as obsessed with Draco as Draco was with him.

But no one even talked to Draco about sex. His parents and acquaintances were far too proper to ever consider broaching the topic with the little lord of Malfoy Manor. So Draco learned about intercourse from hushed snippets of overheard conversations in the corridors of Hogwarts, just enough to peak his interest and lead him to many sweaty nights of self-exploration. 

Because he had next to no information about the physical act of sex, he had no shame about any pleasure he could find in his own body, only a vague notion that it was a subject not to be discussed with others. He took care to ward his bed curtains with silencing charms whenever he pleasured himself, and cleaned himself up scrupulously each time, Vanishing the evidence.

The silencing charms were certainly necessary, as Draco was *loud*. Spoiled, perhaps, by the possession of his own silent wing in Malfoy Manor, he held back no sound, no ragged gasp or whimper. He used his hands, his fingers and once, memorably, his own mouth to bring himself to orgasm. It was quite common for Draco to come multiple times each night, sometimes working himself for hours, finally satiating himself in a gasping, sweating heap on a tangle of come-covered sheets. It was Draco’s love of being stuffed full of his own fingers that made him start to wonder if maybe he preferred men to women after all, though he knew it didn’t matter really. He knew he must marry and sire a Malfoy heir, and lived a few years under that bleak dread until suddenly his father was locked once more in Azkaban (this time for good), and his mother had fled in disgrace to France, leaving Draco with an unthinkably large fortune, a thoroughly besmirched surname, and absolutely no one to answer to.

It was Draco’s utter wildness that surprised Harry most of all when he and Draco ended their years-long dance around each other, and finally fell into bed together. Draco at 18 was still, impossibly, a virgin. Harry was not, technically, but if asked he would vehemently insist that one awkward and unsatisfying night with Ginny Weasley did not count as sex, not when both parties were more motivated by the idea that they *should* want it rather than by love or even lust.

Harry felt both love and lust for Malfoy. Lust came first. Lust drove Harry to kiss Draco Malfoy in an attempt to crack the façade of blank indifference toward him which Malfoy had been maintaining since the end of the war; and lust edged with desperate pleasure drove him to chase the last of Malfoy’s resistance with his tongue. Draco had never been kissed, and had never practiced kissing. But he yielded so beautifully to Harry, finally the sole focus of the boy he had coveted for so many years. 

That first kiss was thoroughly confusing for both parties, who each feared the other’s ridicule. A curious tension characterized the next few days— a standoff that was broken by Draco. Harry imagined that Draco was quite used to getting what he wanted, and that probably Draco regarded any instance of *not* receiving his every desire as some sort of confusing oversight, which would soon be corrected. Harry was wrong about that. Draco Malfoy had been denied the greatest wish of his heart for so long that he didn’t know what to do when it presented itself willingly to him. But he had nothing left to lose, and so little of his pride remained that he was able to push aside the last tattered shreds of it, and corner Harry again in the unused corridor just off the Charms classroom while the rest of the patchwork Eighth Year sloped off to lunch in the Great Hall. Draco herded Harry up against the rough stone wall, and kissed him again. Thoroughly shocked, it took Harry a moment to let go of his wand and curl his fingers in Draco’s hair, pulling him desperately closer.

Love, for Harry, came later. First he fell in love with Draco’s body. He fell in love with the intensity of Draco’s gaze when he saw Harry’s body bared to him, and with the way that Draco selfishly chased his own pleasure while somehow making each encounter the best and most mindblowing of Harry’s life. Harry loved the lean, graceful lines of Draco’s body, loved the sharpness of Draco’s bones under his pale skin and the slick quirk of the pink mouth when he caught Harry looking. He loved the noises Draco made, with no restraint at all, and he loved Draco’s willingness to do anything Harry wanted that brought them both pleasure. He loved the muscular curve of Draco’s back when he took him from behind, and how the other boy writhed and begged when Harry speared him with his thick cock. He loved the hot clutch of Draco’s mouth around him, grey eyes smirking at him, rending him to pieces. He loved Draco’s legs thrown recklessly over his shoulders, bending him tight and fucking him deep. He loved Draco’s tongue when it flicked around the tight furl of his hole, and he especially loved to hear Draco swear and say his name when he came all over them both.

And soon enough, Harry found that he even loved Draco. He saw the kindness and gentleness hiding behind sarcasm, and began to be soft with Draco in return. They built something beautiful together, and began to heal. Finally.


End file.
